


held our breath for too long ‘til we're half sick about it

by spock



Category: Kill Your Darlings (2013)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Clothed Sex, Coda, Codependency, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, Treat, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite Lou’s disdain, Allen can't think of a single person on earth who he'd rather have recite his work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	held our breath for too long ‘til we're half sick about it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milkandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/gifts).



In the back of his mind, Allen's come to think of Lou's bed as _theirs_ — a hidden place where only Lou is allowed, and that Allen is permitted. Where their scents have mixed, merged, morphed into something entirely new, this hybrid thing that came into being sometime during the handful of hours they manage to carve out each night. He keeps these thoughts to himself, especially now, with Lou seemingly drawing further and further away from Allen, a wounded animal retreating into its shell, even though Allen knows one thing with more surety in his life than even death or taxes are guaranteed: if any hurt comes between them, it sure as hell won't be Allen who doles it out. 

It's what comforts Allen as he waits for Lou to come back to his room each night, something that happens later and later with each passing day, as Allen sits in bed holding a quasi-vigil, the best of his day's writing lost somewhere between the sheets, they themselves waiting for benediction in the form of Lou's gaze. 

Lou never bothers to turn the lights on when he stumbles through the door, just flicks his eyes over to Allen where he sits propped-up on the mattress, their eyes catching, holding as Lou shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it somewhere to his left, quick fingers unbuttoning his shirt and yanking the belt from his pants. He always leaves his beater on, the stark whiteness catching various colors from the light shining in from the stained glass window beside his — their — bed, giving Allen an excuse to stare while Lou undoes the front of his pants and kicks them down his legs. 

Neither of them say a word, silence highlighting the chasm that's formed between them lately, millions of years worth of erosion condensed into a few weeks of bitten-back words and swallowed questions that burn angry, festering welts into the base of Allen's throat. 

Once Lou's got his shoes kicked off he steps onto the bed, socked feet a few inches away from Allen's slightly bent knees, Allen's head exactly level with Lou's cock, hidden away behind the pale blue cotton of his shorts. Allen ducks his head, focuses on the dull blue-grey coloring of the duvet, doesn't let his mind linger on the fact that he's absolutely positive Lou's wearing Allen’s underwear, and not something pilfered from Allen's nightstand drawer, but the exact pair that Allen had been wearing yesterday, that Allen had tossed into the hamper to be laundered, ones that Lou must have snatched back out when Allen's back was turned. They rushed to class right after Allen had changed. Lou would've had to of kept them on him, hidden, until they got back to the dorms that night.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself not to think about that, not to wonder just why Lou took them, why he's wearing them, what it means. He jumps when Lou slips a hand into his hair, grips and tugs until Allen's face is tilted up at the ceiling, eyes still clenched tight. Lou's other hand joins his first, slowly dragging the pads of his fingers against Allen's scalp, tangling Allen’s curls around his knuckles. "What've you got for me tonight?" Lou's voice — inherently shaky, always cracking, vibrating its way into Allen's ears; the flowing, near watery-ness of it filling up Allen’s lungs, half-drowning him in its wake — sounds too-loud in the quiet of the room. 

Allen opens his eyes, gazes up into Lou's as he blindly fishes around the bed, fingers catching on the edge of a slip of paper. He tugs it out from between the sheets and holds it up for inspection. 

One of Lou's hands leaves his hair, plucking the paper from Allen's fingers and resting it smack-dab on Allen's forehead, a makeshift table, using the hand he's still got cradling Allen's nape as a guide, forcing Allen to angle his head so that the paper is illuminated by the faint light streaming in through the window, enabling Lou to read the half-smudged typewriter ink.

"Walking the size of specks of wool," Lou reads. He's mocking Allen's cadence, stopping in the odd spaces Allen has found himself wanting to dwell in, to linger, a new rhythm that he's slowly falling into, one that Lou hates, that Will doesn't entirely understand, and that Allen will never, ever let David hear. 

Despite Lou’s disdain, Allen can't think of a single person on earth who he'd rather have read his work.

"Pavements staring into all man's," Lou says, and then pauses a beat too long, something in his face shifting, before he continues, "plateglass, faces," the pause perfectly timed, the exact right length, "questioning after who loves." Allen realizes that this is Lou truly reading what he's written, without mockery. With each word that drips from Lou’s lips, more and more water fills Allen's lungs. It reminds him of the noose: air surrendered for something greater, more vital. "And stop, bemused." 

Lou collapses down onto Allen, knee digging into his stomach, paper half-fluttered down until it's caught between their cheeks, Lou's face so close to his. "Allen," he breathes, before mashing their lips together, his hot breath replacing the water from Allen's lungs. He shoves Allen flat onto his back, body sprawled across the mattress, gasping, and then blankets himself directly overtop of Allen, until he's curled over Allen completely. 

"Why don't you write like this all the time?" Lou says each word between gritted teeth, face twisted into something Allen's never seen before. Lou’s so close, biting kisses into Allen’s lips, all while Allen tries to gentle them, tries to catch Lou's eyes. 

He succeeds at neither. 

Allen's never been one to give up. 

He keeps trapping Lou's lips between his own, sucking them into his mouth, licking up into Lou's. Eventually Lou relents, drops down onto Allen's body completely, using his full weight to press Allen into the mattress, dragging their cocks together through the thin fabric of their shorts, kissing Allen deeply, making it so that Allen can't move, can't breathe. He lasts all of a minute before he's coming, arms wrapping tight around Lou's body to hold him close, hands drifting down to palm his ass, fingers teasing and curling into the hem at Lou's thighs, tucking up underneath, his nails scratching lightly against the hair dusting Lou's legs. 

Allen feels Lou's orgasm as if it were his own, has the full-body experience of Lou shuddering all along the planes of his body, feels the way Lou's ass tenses and relaxes against the tight grip of Allen's palms. 

Lou rolls off of him, breathing calm, unhurried, as if nothing happened at all; his too-red lips and the wet patch staining the front of his — Allen's — shorts providing the only evidence to Allen's still-racing mind that this wasn't another one of his fantasies. 

"If you want to be useful," Lou says, "you need to write like that all the time."

Allen doesn't answer him, just shuts his eyes and thinks to himself: _Be careful. You are not in wonderland._


End file.
